Loose Change

I'd put in a full work week last week at my brand new place of employ, the one that I had been hired back in 1867, near the building's conception, though then it was mostly used for the purposes of distilling rye whiskey. If they were still making the brown elixir and I was hired to taste it, making sure it wasn't poison for all those destined to consume, consume, consume (forgive me, I just watched Bill Hicks' Revelations again), that would have been one thing. My life's trajectory, however, is not on that path. Sigh.

Last week nearly killed me.

Clad in black from tip to mangled toes, I, Employee #562, grounded by the top 10 worst pair of uncomfortable shoes known to bartenderkind, found myself after each long shift with spine and enlisted uniform empacted and sullied, respectively. By Saturday night, incidentally the worst work night I've experienced in memory, I indeed felt the kind of violation one feels by being forced into a 90˙angle while having the clenched fist of an unlikely green superhero repeatedly pounding my ass sans lubricazione.

As a concept, I like the idea of working communism: everyone working together towards a common goal; everyone leaving with the same amount in their pockets; everyone downing exactly 4 pints to deal with what had happened in the 8-10 hours prior. In many work situations I'd both engaged in and encouraged a pooling scenario. We'd stuff our individual dough into a collective and at the end of the night, feet burning, asses violated, we'd divvy the pot. As an idea, this is sound. In practice it is often not.

There are approximately 12 bartenders scheduled for 6 bars. All of us pool. One bar could yield $800 in tips. Another could garner $100. No matter what bar a bartender's working, everyone takes solace in the knowledge that everyone will make the same as everyone else.

Of the 5 days I worked last week, 4 out of the 5 nights were on the same bar, incidentally the busiest, performing the same set of duties: essentially waitering with the disadvantage of having to make one's own drinks. It was a role not one other bartender wanted to perform; too taxing. It involved serving the section beyond the bar, where 2' of wood is non-existent, except on dining tables for two where one guest looks lovingly (or disgustingly) across 2' of wood. To serve these tables properly knowledge of food, wine, timing and computer skills are needed as the basic skill set. I was once told that the job of a waiter was more mentally taxing than that of a brain surgeon. Constant juggling including the updating of our priorities list every minute we're working is pretty much the name of the game.

The roles of the other bartenders vary. Some work the service bar, servicing the waiters. Others work the wood; the bar proper. Still others had the duty of just pouring draft beer all night. That, to me, would be the ultimate in cushy. No matter what was done, no matter who performed these duties, and for however long the duties were performed, everyone was taken care of equally in the end.

I suspect this is why communism or many other isms don't work. It breeds resentment.

There was a girl who had worked on a very slow bar, who got moved onto our busy bar and all she did on our busy bar, as I was running around like a headless chicken trying to stay afloat and barely succeeding, was polish glasses. Slowly. With a poisoned look on her face. Though my bunions are exactly twice their size as they'd been last week, the Poisoned Polisher maintained a matte complexion and never once complained about any pained body part.

My question, posed to 2 different managers was: What's the point?

It's not to say I am the only one who breaks a sweat there. I'm not. My favourite work comrade is Antony, the bar manager. Born the same year as the Comrade, aussi a Monkey, 13 days my junior, he too has been in the industry for eons. He's a secret writer, also an actor. We have much in common. His work ethic is nothing short of inspirational. Anything that needs to be done is done. He is the first to help and the first to offer unsolicited assistance, dropping anything he might have on his very full plate to aid in any way he can.

The problem with Antony is he cares too much, something that happens to me as well. Over this past weekend we were immersed in Jazz Festival Hell. It was busy non-stop. There were no union breaks. There was no pre nor post work bingeing of any denomination. We were left exhausted, hungry and thirsty for any sort of induced state other than feeling raped and pillaged. Tony was spun so tight over the weekend he hadn't taken a crap for 2 days. I remember him mentioning he was turtling back on Friday.

Turtle peaks out.
Turtle touches cloth.
Turtle gets scared and goes back inside his warm shell.
Turtle gets hard and stinky after a couple of days.

Friday night seemed as good a night as any to marry ill compensation for work performed with a last call at the Cheer's Equivalent bar, my once a week night of employ which allows this young lady a deep discount on imbibements. My Fatty and I pounded tequilla shots and pints of organic lager until the resonation of the final gong of the last call bell was no longer audible to canines. Stumbling home, we picked up late night take out fried chicken that looked twice its number by way of blurred double vision. I gobbled quickly then lay down on my new IKEA carousel bed. Wait a minute. I didn't buy a carousel bed. I've never even seen a carousel bed. It was at this point I decided it had been too long since I'd worshipped last.

Lifting a seated lid, planting two hands on either side of the porcelain goddess, I donated the bounty of offerings, the portion of me which had been consumed within the last hour. Luckily I wasn't too attached to anything I'd injested.

Fatty came into the bathroom after the final flush, as I was rinsing out regurgitated poultry fragments which had lodged behind my last molar. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my back. Later he affirmed my dislike of having someone hold my hair as I'm hurling. I've never understood those that care for it. He came in at exactly the right moment.

Ack had said to me the other day that he didn't think I could do better than Fatty.

Last week I received a handwritten letter from my new upstairs neighbours, Chris and Marty. Brothers. Tall, fair and lovely, Marty tips the hot scale. Chris looks sort of like Marty, I suppose a family resemblance, but with eyes that look like he's done a fair bit of hating in his life. Marty is missing this feature. The handwritten letter announced they would be having a School Girl themed party over the long weekend. They invited me to this party, but also added it would be great if I was out of town! Considering the state of mind post work and the fact that I have not owned a plaid kilt for 20 years, I opted not to attend.

After the horror of my Saturday night at work, I came home to a fridge with the remnants of 5 different partially eaten meals and zero beers. Fatty had finished the last Grolsch. In my weakened condition I was looking at him as a liability. The soundtrack to my increasing misery was the loudest, most mundane, soulless 4/4 tempo of really, really bad house music coming through my ceiling, my walls, my doors. The Brothers Hot and Hater had rented professional commercial speakers for their shindig.

Get the knife. The really big one.

Years ago I had purchased a cache of bright, orange earplugs. They cut out the greater percentage of noise, but it didn't stop the bass pulsation which penetrates my chest cavity, misfiring my heartrate. I have an irregular heartbeat as it is. House music gives me heart palpitations.

I couldn't and decided not to call the cops during the peak of this, and I use this term very loosely, music. It is only appreciated after taking a communion of Ecstacy. The brothers covered their asses with the handscribed Apology-in-advance. So, with neon plugs stuffed into each modified Fergengi erogenous zone, I tried my best to fall into slumber with a very bitchy Fatty prone at my side...

...who had excellent recommendations, I might add.

One of my favourite songs, which resides firmly on my Top 20 songs of all time, is Going the Distance from the Rocky soundtrack. It's the victorious theme found firmly at the end of Act III, replete with a superb disco bass rhythm, full orchestra and church bells. Fatty loves this song as well. Sometimes Fatty and I hang out in my apartment, a place he's starting to call home and yet doesn't freak me out too much when he does (which is weird), with monklike robes on. His idea was to attach a 100' extension cord to my portable stereo, a burned mp3 queued up. Donning hooded robes, we'd go upstairs, boom box on Fatty's shoulder. I'd cut the power cord from their stereo as we'd crank the theme to the Italian Stallion's victory. Va fangule, fratelli!

The other recommendation he had was that we streak the party.

Sadly I wasn't in the mood to do either.

By 12:30 the next day the music was still going. The level was slightly reduced from that which was sounding 6 hours prior, but it was inescapable. Fatty was lying in bed threatening to kick their doped up asses. This was my fight. My turf. I needed to go speak to them. The letter stiplulated noise from Saturday night until Sunday morning. It was Sunday afternoon.

The Comrade: I'm just going to have a coffee and smoke first before I go upstairs. I'm liable to lose it otherwise.
Fatty: Go now! Go now!

Fatty loves it when I lose it, but only when it's not directed at him.
I compromised.
I made a coffee, lit a cigarette and walked up a set of grey carpeted stairs made filthy by way of cigarette ash, tipped imported beer bottles and general raver filth, heading to the source of 4/4 tempo induced aural hemorraging. Because neurotransmitters and electrolytes were off kilter, delicate balancing act was to be engaged. I couldn't spill a drop of precious coffee.

Though there was no one inside the apartment, the professional speakers - 8 visible - were all pointing towards the center of the empty bachelor's vacuum. Looking out onto the deck I noticed that all bodies were outside enjoying the lovely weather, half sunburnt with the biggest collection of dilated pupils I've ever seen. School Girl party indeed.

Stepping out into the sun, hoping my 60 SPF sunblock had kicked in to stave off any potential Billy Dee Williamisms, I said 8 hellos in succession while eyeing an empty resin chair. I plopped into it with the familiarity of having done so every day of my life, though I'd never seen it before. As I was congenially smiling at either half baked eyes or plain gaping mouths perched under Arnet sunglasses, 8 heads tried to register exactly who the hell I was.

The Comrade: I'm the neighbour! From downstairs! Hi!
Collective Group Hepped Up on Goofballs: [thinking... thinking] ... oh... hey... neighbour...
The Comrade: I just came up to have a smoke and my morning coffee.
One of the Collective Group with the Goofball Action: [thinking...] Yeah... that's cool! Yeah, the neighbour!
The Comrade: Yeah, the neighbour! This is the thing, though. Myself and my boyfriend, who incidentally is still trying to sleep after having been kept up all night... by all of... this, have had to put up with this music that A) we can't seem to escape from no matter where we go in the apartment. God knows I've tried and B) I have to say, this music? ... I really fucking hate it. Now it would be one thing if I had taken E, but I haven't.
One of the Collective with the weirdest Eyes I've Ever Seen: [big smile on his face] We could fix that.
The Comrade: Well, this is the other thing. Thank you! But I have to work later today. I'm kind of hoping for a tiny bit of peace before I have to face my wrath.
Another of the Collective: So...
The Comrade: So, I'm looking for a little sound reduction, if you don't mind.

One of the party, I suspect a newbie, my only tip off being his rational behaviour, immediately turned the music way down. I took both unfinished cigarette and my coffee, which was made lighter by only one sip, back downstairs to a newly quiet apartment, thankful I wasn't prone to chemical addiction which leads to an appreciation of really bad music.

The music was barely detected for a while, but after an hour they stepped it up a bit. Little Ravers like having their emotions dictated by disk spinners. They peak when they're told to. I was just short of a peak myself, though was earnestly trying to stifle it. I didn't want to lose it on Fatty. I was dreading going into work, which was coming up in 2 short hours. Putting on my make-up I had to force myself to not follow my natural brow line while applying a powdered brown arch. I would have created Anger Brow otherwise.

Something had to be done. Sunday was proving to be a day to deal with irritations. One down. One to go.

At work, after being handed an envelope containing my tip portion from the night prior:
The Comrade: Can I talk to you when you have a second?
Antony: Done. What's on your mind?
The Comrade: I really feel for you. I really want to help, but I don't think I can do this anymore. I'm so, so sorry. I absolutely adore you, but last night nearly killed me. This [underscoring the handprinted total on the envelope with my finger] isn't worth it to me.
Antony: I totally understand. If the General Manager wasn't my brother-in-law I wouldn't be here either. This place is fucked.

My respect for him, born out of appreciation for familial love and responsibility, grew.

Antony: What do you want?
The Comrade: I think I'd like to move to the floor. Just waiter.
Antony: I'll take care of it. And if they don't give it to you, I'll quit.
The Comrade: [giggling] I know you're not going to do that, but you're very sweet.
Antony: Could you do me a big favour?
The Comrade: Anything.
Antony: Could you finish up next week?
The Comrade: Sure.
Antony: I'm really sorry this didn't work out. You're a perfect fit for this place.

As soon as I told him a huge weight had lifted. Initially I had felt like I was giving up; that the challenge was too much. That wasn't the case though. Not every place is a fit for everyone involved. Work, as I will maintain for the rest of my life, should not feel like work. There are moments, of course. But generally work should be something you look forward to going to. It cuts away at least a third of one's life.

One amazing thing about working really hard is the advent of the first day off. God, it was glorious.

Fatty woke me up with a pressing of lips to forehead. He made coffee, french toast, a watercress salad with a poached egg on top. Previously perceived liability turned asset. Ack found the new patio for the summer. It's off the beaten track, overlooking the lake. Doves flew overhead. I imagined they were once touring with a magician. They have delicious Stella on tap. They draw an excellent crowd. We met a couple to laugh with who had left their kids in the car (which was visible from their vantage point and also had windows cracked). The food is decent. And on the stereo they played Stars and Nick Drake.

It was a perfect day.

I have another job interview today. On College Street. It's farther away. It will take me longer than 7 minutes to get there, but it's a small place, something I've grown to love.